


Skinny Boy

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Body Image, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal doesn't feel like his physique measures up to the bodies of the men around him, and complications that follow his return to New York only make things worse. Clinton Jones, surprisingly, has something to say about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skinny Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the "body image issues" square on my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) card. In doing some research to find inspiration for this square, I found a few articles that said men are more likely to worry about not being muscular enough, as opposed to worrying about their weight. Plus, I've been wanting to write some N/C ever since I had to struggle to keep [this story](http://embroiderama.livejournal.com/464005.html) gen, so I was glad to get a plot bunny.

In prison, Neal had never been one of those guys who passed the time lifting weights. He was never going to be big enough to intimidate with his physical size, and handling battered, sweaty weights in a room full of men who could crush him wasn't exactly Neal's idea of a fun time. He did some calisthenics in his cell to keep himself strong and fit, but when it came to his safety he relied on his brains and his agility, and they very rarely let him down.

Working for the FBI, things weren't as different as Neal might have imagined. There were plenty of guys Neal's size or smaller, but he couldn't help looking at the men he spent the most time with--Peter and Clinton--and seeing the way their bodies pushed at the straight lines of their suit coats. Unlike the meatheads in prison, they kept their strength under wraps but Neal couldn't avoid noticing it any more than he could ignore the slight bulge of a weapon holstered out of sight. He saw Peter out of his suit and Oxford shirt so rarely that every time was a revelation.

He'd look at his own arms in the mirror later on and think about what he'd look like with more muscle layered onto his body. He wasn't sure if it would work for a guy like him. His mother had always called him skinny, and he was certainly bigger than the gangly kid who'd run away from his whole lie of a life, but compared to the men who often surrounded him he sometimes felt like that kid, clutching his backpack in the corner of a bus station. He hated that kid.

When he ran from the home he'd become attached to in New York, there was no riding on stinking Greyhound buses, no hiding away in library stacks and sleeping there all night. They flew first class and slept in a posh resort hotel until they found the right island, the right villa to rent. Then his life was all wide open spaces, fresh breezes and sunshine broken only by nights full of stars and cooling rains. There were no bars, no battered concrete walls, no skyscrapers blocking out the sky, no gray haze of exhaust fumes.

Also, there was nothing to do. When they first arrived, Neal spent the first week sleeping off the exhaustion of the previous week, perhaps even the last several months, and enjoying the food and drink Mozzie had delivered to their door. After that, he began to explore but the island was small, and Neal could only spend so many hours strolling in the marketplace and touring the churches before the charm wore off. He could only reproduce so many paintings before he ran out of materials and had to send away for more. He began to daydream about the private beach in front of the villa being populated by his friends from back in New York.

June, reclining under an umbrella, regal in a caftan and hat, Bugsy digging in the sand next to her. Elizabeth in some kind of glamorous, curve-hugging retro-style swimsuit, lying in the sun with a book in her hands. Peter in baggy board shorts, chasing Satchmo through the edge of the surf. Diana swimming, walking out of the water in a sporty bikini. And Clinton. Neal's subconscious surprised him by clothing Clinton Jones in square-leg trunks, short and snug enough to hide very little. He was like the reverse of Neal, dark and broad, muscular and solid, and he was stretched out on a towel in the sun. No book, no umbrella, no sunscreen, just miles of almost-bare Clinton Jones, bits of sand sticking to his skin where the sun baked his skin dry of water droplets.

In reality, Neal had never seen Clinton that undressed, but he'd seen glimpses--the shape of powerful thighs clear through thin summer-weight pants, biceps flexing under a t-shirt when he was putting on wires for an undercover op--and he'd always thought the guy was handsome but he'd never taken the starring role in any of Neal's fantasies. That night, between the layers of crisp white sheets in his airy bedroom, he thought about straddling those hips, rubbing himself off against the spandex-clad curves of a rock-hard ass, his hands gripping tight to the thick muscles of Clinton's shoulders as he came

As the days wore on, boredom led to restlessness and restlessness led to working out. Neal normally kept his intentional exercise to a minimum, especially outside of prison. He preferred the exercise of ordinary walking--whether it was casing a neighborhood on his own, working a case with Peter, or strolling with June--and his life both before and after prison included occasional bouts of vigorous exercise to challenge him from time to time. In New York he kept up with the sit-ups and push-ups that had become a habit in prison, and that was plenty. His metabolism was fast enough to keep up with his appetite, and he kept a sharp eye out for middle-aged spread but it hadn't crept in yet.

On the island, he started spending time running in the morning and swimming in the late afternoon, then he and Mozzie would spend the evening eating and drinking like princes and it all balanced out. Neal started to see more muscle on his legs and arms and chest, and he liked it. If he thought about what his friends in New York would say about the difference, he tried not to let the thoughts linger very long.

~~~

Then he went back to New York with a heart and head full of conflicting emotions and bullet wound in his thigh. He hobbled through three airports and half of the buildings in Federal Plaza before he was allowed to drag himself up to his room at June's. Twelve hours later he winced his way down the stairs and into a car driven by a stone-faced US Marshal because a) Peter was still suspended, b) Neal wasn't on a radius so much as being staked-out in his own home, and c) the hole in his leg didn't look at all like a healing bullet wound.

It looked like a bullet wound that had been torn open a couple times, exposed to three continents worth of bacteria and transformed into a weeping mess of infection and pain. He spent a day in the hospital on IV antibiotics and then two weeks taking horse pills that made him want to throw up all over the endless paperwork the FBI and the Marshals wanted him to review and verify and sign ad nauseum. Literally.

The infection was defeated, his leg was officially healing, and the physical therapist June hired to come work with him at home said that he'd be off the cane and back to normal soon, but when Neal looked in the mirror he wasn't sure what normal was supposed to be. His tropical tan was mostly faded, and all of his new muscle mass was gone, melted away from the enforced rest and the way the drugs had killed his appetite. He felt fine now that the infection and antibiotics were both out of his system, and he was glad to be going back to work, but he was going to be that same old skinny boy, and that disappointment among many burned.

Neal had a sheet of recommended exercises from his physical therapist, and the gym on the fifth floor of the FBI building was the most convenient place to get the work done. His radius was down to a quarter of a mile around June's house, and while a quarter mile was still a lot in Manhattan the closest thing to a gym in the radius was a yoga and pilates studio that wouldn't have the kind of equipment Neal was looking for. The FBI gym didn't have a juice bar, but it was clean and full of good equipment so Neal checked with Hughes to make sure he was authorized to use it and resigned himself to the task.

With his new handler and a medical release for light duty only, Neal's working hours were considerably more regular than they'd been when he was chasing down criminals with Peter, so he decided to make a habit of staying late to work out rather than coming in early and having to deal with getting ready for work in the men's locker room. He was dreading how busy the gym might be and how many muscular guys would be there sneering at the amount of weight he was using on the machines, but his fears turned out to be unfounded.

His first few visits, Neal saw a variety of different agents and staff, most of them sticking to the cardio machines--middle aged men on the stationary bikes, women on the ellipticals, none of them paying much attention to Neal. He followed his therapist's instructions, warming up on the treadmill then stretching and doing a circuit of machines to work his leg. He missed his lap pool and his beach, but there was a certain calm to not having to worry about his whole world falling apart. It had fallen, and he was still standing. And he was getting stronger.

Several days into his new routine, Neal had become comfortable with showing up at gym, not seeing anybody he particularly recognized, and keeping to himself as he worked out. When Clinton Jones walked into the gym in a pair of blue basketball shorts and a black tank shirt, Neal caught himself staring until Clinton nodded at him and stepped up onto the treadmill next to Neal's. "Caffrey," he said, his tone friendly but not particularly conducive to further conversation, and then he punched up the speed on his treadmill until he was was running hard, footsteps pounding on the machine while Neal slightly increased the speed of his slow jog, the twinge in his leg keeping him from the speed he craved.

While he sat on the machines working his legs, Neal passed the time watching out of the corner of his eye as Clinton worked out on the free weights. His daydream from the island came back to him, and while the real life version of Clinton Jones had more of his body covered than the fantasy version had, the cotton tank and thin shorts did little to hide the powerful shape of his body. Neal felt himself getting hard right there in the middle of the gym, and he closed his eyes, focusing on his own breath and the stretch of muscle and scar tissue in his leg until he had himself under control.

"Lookin' good, Caffrey."

Neal startled, letting the stack of weights drop the last few inches with a crash as he opened his eyes to see Clinton leaning against the machine next to his. "Me? I'm just trying to get up to speed so I don't slow everybody down out there. I don't think anybody's going to put me on the FBI muscle men calendar anytime soon."

Clinton just laughed and shook his head. "When they do the FBI issue of GQ we'll send them your way."

Neal laughed it off, but he watched Clinton as he walked away, the firm shape of his ass clear under the low-slung shorts.

After that, he and Clinton ended up in the gym at the same time more days than not. As his leg recovered, Neal started spending more time working his upper body, and he watched the definition that he'd lost start to return even if he'd been too busy and too stressed about the situation with Peter to put on any bulk. His doctor released him from light duty, but work still involved more hours behind a desk or around a conference table than chasing people through warehouses.

They were all working hard to get Peter back to White Collar, spending time working after hours to find a solution, and after a long day of sitting in a room combing through files Neal's leg was stiff and sore, and while his brain was exhausted his body hummed with nervous energy so he grabbed his gym bag and headed for the elevator. When Clinton stepped into the elevator just before the doors closed, his own bag in hand, Neal couldn't help being pleased at the prospect of having company in the gym, given that it was late enough to all but guarantee an empty room. The distraction of trying to watch Clinton without being caught watching was a welcome thing, too.

They changed and then warmed up side-by-side. Neal jogged until the stiffness in his leg loosened up and then ran smoothly, not quite at Clinton's speed yet but getting there. When he was done working on the weight machines, Neal sat down on the mats to stretch. Clinton put away his free weights and then stood stretching out his arms next to where Neal sat.

"You're looking good, Caffrey."

"You ever think about calling me Neal?" Neal immediately wished he hadn't said it, blaming the endorphins floating around in his exhausted brain.

Clinton was quiet for a moment, and Neal looked up to see him smiling. "Neal. You really are looking good."

"Thanks," Neal said, for the name more than the compliment even though it made him stupidly happy that Clinton Jones thought he looked good. Clinton held his hand out, and Neal grabbed tight and let Clinton tug him up to stand. Neal clapped his hand to Clinton's bicep and lifted one eyebrow. "Maybe you can give me some workout tips so I can stop looking like a weakling next to you and Peter."

"Weakling? You might be a lot of things, Neal, but you're not weak. I can help you work your upper body if you want, but I don't think your arms are going to look like mine any more than my waist is going to look like yours. Nothing wrong with different body types." Clinton hadn't let go of Neal's hand, and he tugged Neal closer, his voice dropping into a lower register as he added, "Nothing wrong with yours, at least."

"Is that so?" Neal whispered before tilting his head to make up for the small height difference and pressing his lips to Clinton's. Clinton opened his mouth and Neal took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tasting the cinnamon gum Clinton had taken up chewing when he quit smoking.

When they pulled apart, Clinton looked Neal up and down and shook his head slowly. "Not here," he said.

Neal followed him into the locker room, and Clinton flipped the lock on the door before backing Neal into the tiled wall and kissing him again, his hands touching Neal all over, pushing up underneath his t-shirt to peel it off and down under the waistband of his sweatpants. Neal pulled Clinton's tank up over his head and pulled away from the kiss long enough to get a full view of his chest, muscles that were thick but not excessive, strength that he could feel under his fingertips as he ran his hands over the sweat-damp skin.

Clinton pushed down his shorts and jock to reveal a cock that was thick and half-hard then reached across to tug Neal's sweats and underwear down over his hips. He wrapped his hand behind Neal's head and pulled him in for another kiss, their cocks brushing against each other as they moved. He kissed his way to the corner of Neal's jaw and murmured, "Skinny boy," low and rough.

Neal inhaled sharply and twitched his head away, suddenly conscious of the wall at his back. "Thanks a lot."

"What?" Clinton looked up and frowned, confused for a second before his eyes softened with understanding. "No, no, I mean you're gorgeous. You know how hard it's been to not watch you all this time? In all those fitted suits that would look ridiculous on a guy like me? Gorgeous." He put his hands on Neal's waist and ran them up along his ribs to his chest before skating his fingertips over Neal's collar-bone, the light touch making Neal want to stand on his toes to push into it.

Clinton reached between Neal and the wall to hold him close with one hand on his lower back and took both of their cocks in his other hand then worked them both slowly until he and Neal were panting, Neal holding himself up with a tight grip on Clinton's shoulder. Neal arched his back to push their hips closer together, and Clinton pushed back, moved his hand faster.

"Perfect," Clinton said before stopping to gasp in more air. "Beautiful."

Neal closed his eyes and pushed his head back against the wall, a sharp edge of grout biting into his scalp as he felt himself hanging right on the edge. Clinton slipped his hand down, one fingertip brushing over Neal's hole, and that flush of sensation took him over the edge. Neal came, and as he panted through it, clinging to Clinton to keep from sliding down the wall, he heard Clinton groan deep and low as he followed. Their descent to the floor was a controlled fall, and Neal opened his eyes to see Clinton slumped next to him with a sticky mess on his belly. Neal knew he was in no better condition himself but he needed more time before he cared enough to grope for his discarded t-shirt.

Clinton moved first, but all he did was roll onto his side and then sling one leg between Neal's. He kissed Neal's throat and his chin before returning to his mouth then pulled away to prop himself up on his elbow and smile down at Neal, his gaze soft. "Beautiful skinny boy."

 _Maybe_ , Neal thought, _maybe I don't mind at all._


End file.
